


The Things They Don't Tell You

by Slumber



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Quidditch, quarter life crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-27
Updated: 2010-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-11 15:43:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slumber/pseuds/Slumber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You had a plan, a path, a purpose, but nobody told you things didn't always work out to your liking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things They Don't Tell You

**Author's Note:**

> Way belated post, but I figured it better be in here for archiving purposes. I wrote this [last year](http://community.livejournal.com/hp_yule_balls/41577.html) for [](http://artemis-sparks.livejournal.com/profile)[**artemis_sparks**](http://artemis-sparks.livejournal.com/) for [](http://hp-yule-balls.livejournal.com/profile)[**hp_yule_balls**](http://hp-yule-balls.livejournal.com/) fest. Never written this pairing before, I don't think. I kinda liked how it turned out.

They didn't tell you it would be like this.

You had an inkling, of course; that much was true. You knew you'd work your hardest the first few years, toiling at the bottom of the heap and doing what you were told, whatever had to be done, but you knew eventually that they would see how painstakingly you'd organised the quarterly reports, see that because you took care to keep schedules in order nothing ever went wrong, that because of you the department did what it was supposed to do. And you thought that, in the same manner that your Head of House and the Hogwarts Headmaster saw all that and decided to give you more responsibility, the rest would follow.

They did notice, at least. After a particularly hectic week, Kingsley Shacklebolt had looked up at you with wonder. "You're a brilliant man, Percival Weasley," he said, before adding, "You are an utterly irreplaceable assistant."

To think once you thought the only thing your father lacked was ambition.

Now all you lack, you think, as you scuttle about your kitchen, is a good pair of eggs. Scrambled, perhaps, since you'd forgotten to drop by the shop again and have nearly next to nothing to eat with it anymore.

You begin to take the egg carton out when the kettle starts to boil, letting out a high-pitched whistle that makes you jump out of your skin and drop the last egg you have so that it makes a bright sticky yellow mess on your floor.

"Bugger," is the first word that comes out of your mouth this fine Monday morning. "Toast it is, then."

\- - -

 

The Ministry is buzzing when you walk in, though not with the usual hum of everyday activity. You begin to wonder what the fuss is all about before six different inter-office memos zoom in on you almost all at once, thick strokes of stark-black ink against cream-coloured paper screaming their reminders. Of all the Mondays in the world, you'd uncharacteristically lost track of this one.

"I'd meant to come earlier," you say by way of greeting, but Shacklebolt waves your excuse away, distracted as he is by the paperwork piling up on his desk.

"Have you my itinerary for the World Cup?"

"I placed it on your desk last Friday, sir," you tell him, reaching underneath the pile to fish it out.

"Oh, this means I'll need to re-schedule tomorrow's tea with the Prime Minister, doesn't it?"

"I've left his secretary a message for you."

"And today's appointment with Aladair?"

"He will be dropping by in two hours' time; here is his proposed timetable, though I've marked it with my comments where I thought you would disagree."

"What would I do without you," he sighs with obvious relief, and sometimes you wonder if you'd get away with murder so long as you had his life in order.

"It's only the stress of the season, sir," you remind him, as you catch an inter-office memo that tries to sneak past the rest. It flutters wildly, the sign of an emergency. "Speaking of—he wants to know if he could bring his new assistant to sit in during the meeting."

"Is he about to request an increase in his travel budget so that he can bring this assistant along too?" Kingsley asks warily. Since it had been announced that the Quidditch World would be held in warm, sunny Greece, various Ministry officials and underlings had made it their sole goal in life to acquire a spot in the British Ministry of Magic's delegation, however creatively.

"Possibly."

Kingsley sighs, by now all-too-exposed to the politics of government bureaucracy, as you are. "Fine," he says, "but you had better make sure this assistant of his is worth the trip."

\- - -

 

When the time came for the Ministry to begin re-establishing itself after Voldemort's second coming, there had been absolutely no question in Kingsley Shacklebolt's mind that nobody was more perfectly suited to head up the Department of Magical Games and Sports than Aladair Maddock. The man was, after all, known for his love of Muggle sports, no matter how displaced it sometimes was.

When you enter his office today, for instance, you find him atop his cherished Comet, dodging Quaffles and Bludgers with a strange contraption settled upon his head as though it were a hat.

"Helmets!" Maddock crows upon sighting you, yelping when a Quaffle bops him on the head and unseats him from his broom.

"Are you alright?" you ask, rushing to help him up.

"Won't help keep you on your broom, but it'll make sure your head's intact!" he declares. "No matter; Muggles don't—American Muggles, I should say, the British don't seem to have the heart for any sort of protection, but yes, American Muggles don't have to worry about falling off any brooms, do they?"

"Oh, of course," you reply, in part because you aren't sure exactly what he's just said.

"Al's trying to establish a safer game of Quidditch for all of us," someone behind you says—of course, you think now, Maddock's assistant might have been who was peppering him with the Quaffles and Bludgers to begin with—and you nearly double-take when you realise who it is.

"Wood?"

Oliver Wood grins. "Hullo, Perce."

"Ahh—do you know each other, then?" Maddock asks, dusting himself off and getting ready to jump on his broom again.

"We were classmates, Al," Oliver says. "Percy here was Head Boy."

"Impressive," Maddock whistles. "Well, isn't this a brilliant coincidence?"

"It is," you say, only because you never expected to run into Oliver Wood at the Ministry, of all places.

"Well, I suspect Shacklebolt sent you here for a reason, Percy," Maddock says. "It can't be to fetch me for that meeting, can it? That isn't for—when is that for, Ol?"

"An hour and a half more, Al."

"Right. An hour and a half more!"

"Actually, sir, Shacklebolt—the Minister, I mean—" you hastily correct yourself, "I've been asked to talk to your assistant."

"Me?"

"Ol?" Maddock looks confused for a moment. "Hang on, is this about the budget?"

"Protocol, sir," you reply, almost apologetically.

Maddock rolls his eyes. "He'll make me jump through hoops, that man," he grumbles, before he turns to Oliver. "Go on, then, boy. Make sure the Minister's assistant is satisfied."

Oliver mock-salutes him. "Yes, sir."

\- - -

 

"I'm sorry I've got to do this, but Shacklebolt—"

"Oh, no, I understand completely," Oliver says, sitting back behind the other side of the table. "You don't want any dead weight with the delegation, right? Any freeloaders?"

You glance around the area—your cubicle is close to Shacklebolt's office, but you are seated in a sea of other Ministry workers, many of whom are expecting to be part of that delegation—and Oliver Wood laughs again.

"The politics involved in this is incredibly delicate!" you say with a sniff.

"I know, I know, I get it," he replies, still laughing. "So what do you want from me?"

You consult the roll of parchment you usually carry around with you around the Ministry. "I would like a statement of purpose, a proposed budget of your stay with the delegation, as well as a detailed list of your schedule and the tasks that you are required to perform during the World Cup, and why it is imperative for these tasks to be performed then," you tell him, belatedly adding, "please."

"Well, you know Al will have me running around making sure he's meeting with who he needs to be meeting with," he says, and you sigh, only all-too-familiar with that part of the job. "But he's also hoping to get the IQF on board with all these new safety measures he's planning to help impose in the game. Says the World Cup's the best time to talk about it."

You are too busy furiously scribbling his answers down on the parchment to catch the look on his face then, so before you even think it through you are already in the middle of your next question: "And you would help that agenda how?"

"How many IQF officials do you think would refuse to discuss safety if they had in the room with them the guy who might have been England's Keeper?"

The quill stops midway through 'safety' and you look up suddenly. "I'm sorry—" you begin to say, but he shakes his head.

"Save it; I've heard everyone's condolences already," he says. "I'm actually surprised you haven't mentioned it until now. I wasn't sure you'd heard."

"I did," you say immediately. "I just—I didn't think it appropriate to ask."

"Breath of fresh air, let me tell you," he says. "My first week here—"

"I can imagine," you say, shaking your head. "I was at that game, actually."

"Were you?"

"Ronald had tickets. Big Cannons fan, I'm sure you remember. He didn't mention it was against Puddlemere and I had no idea the Cannons were still horrible, so I was the one he brought along. I don't believe I've ever seen so much orange in my life before."

Oliver laughs. "Yeah, I remember that."

You don't remember seeing a Quidditch accident having been more gruesome. It was Wood's second year, you think, after a solid first season that had Puddlemere anointing him the cornerstone of their franchise.

You didn't see it yourself, because right about then the Snitch had just been spotted and both teams' Seekers were racing for it, but you remember the collective gasp of the crowd when they caught on, but by then Oliver Wood—all the way at the other side of the pitch—was already mid-fall.

As the Daily Prophet would later report, he'd been trying to block a Quaffle low in the left post when he was hit in the head by a Bludger that a Puddlemere United player had been trying to redirect away from the Seeker. Skele-Gro could only do so much, but even with rehabilitation, it was the head injury (only the fourth in his entire life counting that incident in his first game as a Gryffindor, but really, it was four head injuries too many) and the concussion afterward that ultimately ended his career.

"Is that why—" you begin to ask, cautious with your words in case you stumble through them, "Is that why you're working for Maddock? So that you can help change the rules?"

He shakes his head, that smile on his face never wavering. "Not really," he admits. "But my father played with Maddock, and he owed him a favour, and I didn't really want to get directly involved in the game anymore."

"Oh," is all you can think to say. There is something about the raw honesty in his words that almost unsettles you, and you forget for a minute how to respond when meanings aren't cloaked beneath pleasant words, as they often are in the Ministry. "Well, damn."

\- - -

 

Shacklebolt is reluctant, but after providing him with a bulleted list of arguments, he allows Maddock the company of his assistant.

Preparations for the World Cup are varied and hectic once your contingent arrives in Greece, with delegation meetings and behind-the-scene planning for future events, although you do find yourself with a rare Shacklebolt-less Monday in the week leading up to the World Cup.

"I will be fine without you, Percy," Shacklebolt tells you, the corner of his lips almost twitching as he adds: "I assure you, my wife is more than capable of keeping me out of trouble. Dare I say it—she may even be better at it than you are."

At this he winks, and you wonder briefly if Shacklebolt had been at all immune to the allure of a holiday in Greece.

"Why don't you take that boy Wood out from Maddock and make sure that the pitch isn't visible to Muggles from where they are? Can't risk breaking the Statute, now, can we?" he instructs you, and it isn't until later, when you and Oliver Wood are sweltering under the heat of the Grecian sun, wandering the perimeter of the pitch for the third uneventful time, that his motives become clear to you.

"He ditched me!" you exclaim, and beside you Oliver laughs.

"Caught on, have you?"

"You knew?"

"C'mon, Perce, checking the perimeter is not an assistant's work! Charm specialists, sure, but—" Oliver says, shaking his head in amusement. "I just didn't think it smart to try and tell you that—you were pretty intent on doing the best perimeter-check there ever was."

"Oh piss off," you grumble half-heartedly, knowing by now there was no way to track where Shacklebolt and his wife had run off to.

"That's how you treat a day off?" Oliver asks.

"There is no such thing as a day off in the life of a ministry worker," you respond.

"Right, well, looks like you've got one now, though," he is quick to point out. "Hey, look, why don't you help me do my job instead?"

"What's Maddock asked you to do?" you sniff, a little offended at the thought that Shacklebolt had decided he didn't need your assistance for the day.

"Research," is all he says, though by the glint in his eye and the spring in his step you are fairly sure he is not referring to research of the academic kind.

\- - -

 

There is a difference, you soon realise, between the Oliver Wood you knew from Hogwarts and the Oliver Wood who sits beside you now, in a grubby Muggle bar in the middle of the day, watching something called football in a small box called a telly. You aren't sure what kind of finagling with human nature the Muggles have done to reduce men to sizes sufficient for the viewing pleasure of a single drinking establishment, but no one seems to question the morality of such an act, even erupting into raucous cheers when the team in black scores the winning goal with half a minute left in the game. Oliver slams his pint of beer onto the counter with a hoot, some of its contents spilling over, before he runs through the room high-fiving everyone.

While this does fall under the umbrella term for research—he is watching the Muggle game to help come up with ideas for Maddock's ministry—this drinking, cussing, easy-going Oliver Wood is a stark contrast from the three-year captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

"George says you'd watch Pensieves of matches for hours on end, trying to pinpoint the exact moment where a difference could have been made," you tell him when he resumes his seat, noting that in the years you shared a dormitory with him, you seem to know more of him from what your brothers tell you than from what you know firsthand. "This isn't that sort of research, is it?"

He shakes his head. "This doesn't matter that way anymore," he says. "Not that it ever did."

You cock your head curiously, and you catch a glimpse of the old Oliver Wood now. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, you know," he says with a grandly dismissive wave of his hand. "Shit happens. Life's random. All that. First thing I learned my first year as a reserve."

"Is that so?" you ask, contemplating the drink in your hand. The first thing you learned as a junior assistant to Barty Crouch was how he liked his coffee.

"My teammates said I was too serious about the game," he says, accompanying his words with a short laugh and you realise, for the first time since meeting him at Maddock's office, that it is a hollow sound he makes. "That I cared too much and took things to heart too often."

"I don't see what's wrong with that," you say, recognising the rest of the Weasleys in his Puddlemere teammates.

"There's nothing wrong with it," he tells you. "But you better make sure you're built for disappointment."

"Oh."

"Spent my whole life so I could play in the league, and I get a measly year and a half for all that trouble."

"Well," you start to say, again at a loss for what should be words of comfort. You know he's right, of course—you've only been at nearly the exact same place where you started what was supposed to be a high-powered career in government and politics.

"Yeah, well." He shrugs, smiling as he waves over another round for the two of you. "Shit happens."

\- - -

 

It has only started to get dark when the two of you stumble out of the bar and into the streets, having imbibed not too many drinks in the last few hours you spent there. You aren't sure if it is due to the alcohol in your system or the natural crookedness of the Grecian street but you have trouble falling into step beside him, succeeding only in keeping yourself upright.

"You're alright, Perce," he decides.

"Thanks," you mumble, wondering whether or not he'd thought differently before that day.

"S'funny," he says once you've both found an isolated alley and Portkeyed back to his tent. "You could've been my best mate."

This time, you find yourself the one laughing. "You had Quidditch," you tell him.

"You had your Prefecture," he replies, before scrunching up his face. "Is that the right word?"

"Possibly," you say. "Did we just refer to Quidditch and being Prefect as our best mates?"

"Yes," he replies with a laugh. "And look where it got us."

"Drunk in Greece after being ditched by our superiors," you declare, shaking your head ruefully. "It could be worse."

"It could be better," he responds, and you don't understand how it happens but his lips are suddenly upon yours and you think what the hell?? but not before you respond, your mouth parting just enough for his tongue to push past your lips, because why the hell not? You can't seem to come up with a reason to stop, after the initial shock, especially not when he seems to counter what protests you might have had with fairly strong arguments for not stopping: a hand that pins your wrists down, fingers that grab at your hair. Hips pressed against yours. A mouth hot on your throat. Teeth that nip at delicate skin.

You reach up to tug at his shirt, insistent only because you can feel the heat of his cock against your thigh.

He pushes your trousers down; you kick them away.

You fumble with his pants; he reaches in to close his hand around you.

You arch toward his touch and he holds you down, strong, toned legs on either side of you as your lips find each other, exchange alcohol-laced breath.

When his fingers find your entrance you do not know whether to move closer or pull away, and somehow you end up doing both. It burns, the girth of both digits as they stretch you, impatient and urgent, but they stroke something inside you and the pain is muted by an unexpected but welcome burst of pleasure.

You hiss, barely conscious of what words come out of your mouth, but he smiles at this, leans over to whisper filthier thoughts in your ear. You only realise his last ones are the words to a protection spell when his cock is already halfway inside you, and by this point you no longer care what he says.

\- - -

 

They don't teach many useful things at Hogwarts, you realise, lying on his bed with sweat-slicked skin, short of breath, just as spent as he is. His sheets are twisted around your bodies, the silence just as stifling, as you wonder: What now?

There is plenty of work to do tomorrow, you begin to think, and you will need to get up early to get started. Your good robes are in your own tent; your toiletries are not in his. He was drunk and you were willing, so you roll out of bed to hunt for your clothes. (Your socks, you discover with a mix of horror and amusement, are still on you.)

"It wasn't an accident," he says, and you stop midway through pulling up your trousers.

"I'm sorry?"

In the dim moonlight you can see him smile. "The Bludger. It didn't hit me by accident."

"I don't understand," you say, because you don't. "Didn't it come off one of your Beaters?"

"Roberts. Yeah."

He doesn't offer more beyond that, so you ask: "What happened?"

"What do you think happened?" he asks back, tone laced with just a little bit of anger and bitterness as he gestures between the two of you—the sheets tangled about his waist, your own clothes at your feet.

"Oh."

"He thought I'd talk," he says. "I wouldn't have. I wouldn't."

"I'm sorry," you say, and because you could think of nothing else to add, you crawl back to bed.

"I'm not asking you to stay," he says, startled, when you put your arms around his waist to hug him.

"I know, but I can't be arsed to go back to my tent."

"Oh. Alright."

\- - -

 

It is Monday again, the thousandth in an endless parade of Mondays that now fail to mark the progress you've made in the high-powered world of Ministry workers. The sunlight bears down on you as, unwillingly, your mind begins to run through the list of things you'll need to do.

You stretch and yawn, loathe to start the drudgery of the week once more, before you notice that you're being watched.

"Good morning."

"Hullo," he says, leaning his already-showered-and-dressed self against the door.

"You're up early."

"I was going to make breakfast."

"Oh, no, I don't have anything left."

He laughs. "I noticed."

"Sorry."

He shakes his head. "You know, you do live three doors down from a bakery."

You blink. "I do?"

"Yes! Come on, there's breakfast downstairs."

They didn't tell you it would be like this.


End file.
